


Hell's Hollow

by NbcHannibalBigBang



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A hunt is on but who's the prey?, Hannibal is whipped, M/M, They can't hide anything from each other, They've settled out West in a small town outside Yosemite National Park, Will has his own practice, Years after the Fall, shared mind palace, will graham/hannibal lecter - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 13:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8104246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NbcHannibalBigBang/pseuds/NbcHannibalBigBang
Summary: For Hannibal, Will is like a drug.  Now that he's gotten a hit, he can't get enough.  Especially now that Will has fully embraced his Becoming and they've settled on the edge of a vast, renowned hunting ground.  When they realize a predator may be in their midst, Hannibal struggles to let go of the idyllic life they've built together.





	1. Pine Mountain Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> A beautiful story, submitted anonymously for the HBB

Their third hideaway felt like home and they had lived here the longest. Will had insisted they join the community, and enough time had passed where the press and stories about them had faded. It felt right to come out in the open. Assured in their new identities. 

 

The historic Gold Rush town of Groveland crawls with tourists now, using the local Airbnb’s to avoid the expensive hotels closer to Yosemite. Will’s office, Pine Mountain Therapy, sits on the corner of the main strip, and it thrills Will to imagine what may cross his tracks on any given day. Something wild. In full beast-mode. 

 

He contemplates the state of his mind that he’s brewing for a fight. That he could be bored. He worries that this is what Hannibal feels. That no matter how close to a hunting ground they settle, they need to hunt is still so strong.

 

He turns on to Hell’s Hollow Road and parks the white Mercedes station wagon at the end of the gravel driveway. He’d had the gravel delivered recently, so it was packed high and crunchy, in preparation for Winter. The pebbles crunch and snag into the crevices of his fine Italian leather shoes.

 

Will is dressed in an expensive bolt of green-blue material. He shines like an emerald now, dazzling in the feline grace of his body, hoping the clothes detract from his facial scars. The overall effect leaves people feeling punch-drunk. He unbuttons the jacket as he approaches the house.

The peach-and-honey-marbled stone house sits back from the driveway, with flower beds tucked in the second-story windows and the Spanish tile sloping along the roof. Will had selected the stone himself, although Hannibal chose the land. Only years later, would Hannibal finally admit he chose it because of the street name and not the peaceful, isolated corner between the edge of town and Yosemite National Park. 

 

“Hannibal,,” Will calls out to the seemingly empty house. 

 

In the summer, Will swims the creek that loops around the hollow, winding his way back to the redwood grove and up the path surrounded by tall, golden grass to the patio where Hannibal waits for him. But those days are coming to a close. 

 

The house is cold and dark, and Will is unsettled by the silence. Usually he is greeted by the aroma of dinner, music playing through the house speakers, the dogs’ paws scratching the slate floor, eager to go on their evening walk. 

 

“Hello?” Will calls out. “Hannibal?”

 

They had gotten as far from Baltimore as they could without leaving the Lower 48. Hannibal had not wanted any reminder of the past, and so they traveled West. They had made it through the High Sierras and basked in the beauty of Yosemite Valley, gaping in awe at El Capitan and then decided they were done.

 

“Will,” Hannibal answers, sleepily.

 

Hannibal had been dreaming of the meadows that they’d hiked through, filled with bear and coyote and mountain lions. He rarely dreamed, and today the warmth had left the area and set his unconscious adrift and searching for meaning. In the dream, a sudden storm came upon them and Hannibal lost Will in the whiteout of the blizzard. 

 

Hannibal’s dream weighs on him. Will is the apex predator in these lands and would survive out in the forest. What scares Hannibal is knowing that he could not survive without Will. 

 

Hannibal blinks several times. Even the dogs are slow to rise. Something about the days getting shorter were throwing the whole household off. 

 

“Hannibal?” Will calls out. “I’m home.”

 

The dogs bound downstairs. Hannibal smoothes the duvet from signs of his nap. He had slept longer than usual. He runs a hand through his long tresses, vainly hoping that signs of his bedhead – and low-grade depression – disappear. He looks forward to drinking a few bottles of wine with dinner tonight.

 

The sunsets are glorious to behold from their bedroom window, and the night skies are filled with constellations and shooting stars. They have spent many a night on the balcony soaking in the views, sensing the predators stalking through the forest. 

 

The dogs rush Will as he parks a basket of fresh lavender that a client had given him in the mudroom. A brook from the creek bubbles underneath the house and it is in this room he can see the water lap underneath the floorboards. He has to take a few stairs up into the massive kitchen, decked out with an antique wood stove and two dishwashers. 

 

“In here,” Hannibal’s voice sounds from deep in the house.

 

Hannibal is perched at the bottom of the staircase and Will eases toward him with his eyes crinkled in amusement, in a way that still makes Hannibal’s heart stop. Will presses into his body and Hannibal loses himself in his closeness and his smell. Hannibal clutches his arm.

 

“Where have you been?” Hannibal asks, still haunted by his dram. 

 

“A new client came in,” Will sighs. 

 

“You smell like soap…”

 

“Lavender. I thought you liked lavender. Mayra brought it for us.”

 

“For you,” Hannibal corrects. It’s a sore spot for him. This local woman sniffing around Will’s office, bringing him gifts. Neither of them are oblivious to what her true design is for him. 

 

But there’s nothing Hannibal can do about it. She’s a depressed, middle-aged, single woman from a wealthy family who has thrived under Will’s therapy, primed now to kill those who have taken away her power. 

 

It worries Will that Hannibal’s sense of smell is not what it used to be. That some senses have been dulled as they’ve grown comfortable around each other. His capacity, though, for heightening Will’s appetites has changed very little. 

 

Will leans in closer to distract him with a kiss. He knows when he’s late, Hannibal is hungry for any contact. Will brushes his scarred cheek against Hannibal’s sharp cheekbone, then scratches his forehead against Hannibal’s neck. 

 

“The things you do to me,” Will murmurs against his carotid, “making me so randy.” 

 

“Randy? Is that the name of your mystery client?” Hannibal teases back. 

 

Will rolls his eyes, affronted. And it is exactly what Hannibal needs. This intimacy. All while Will is looking so kissable.

 

Hannibal leans into it, his ability to withhold no longer what it used to be. Years without this man had taught him to cherish every single moment he had to feast his eyes on his beloved.

 

Will treats Hannibal’s mouth like each kiss is their first, open for new exploration. Just as it deepens and he can feel Hannibal responding, he pulls away. He can’t spend the rest of the evening locked in Hannibal’s arms, although that will eventually happen. 

 

“I need to decompress,” Will reminds him. Over the years, he has learned to tell Hannibal that he needs his space and Hannibal has at least pretended not to take it personally. 

 

As a parting gift, Will sucks on Hannibal’s upper lip and then licks his nose. A laugh is shared between them. Will delights in the way Hannibal’s face lights up. The way Hannibal is able to convey his true emotions to only him. 

 

Will craves this intimacy. The life and the emotional tapestry they weaved together. It took work and pain and loss to get to this place, and he cherishes every moment. Electric pulses of desire grip his heart. He pulls back to just breathe it in – along with the sprigs of lavender -- for a moment. 

 

Hannibal can feel the blur of heat that is beginning to sweep over him, consume him. This fire that burns between them so easily. He swallows the moan of protest that threatens to breach his throat. He doesn’t want Will out of his sight, now that he has him. 

 

He has no pride left, after Will chose to remain at his side. He begged Will, begged him, at every leg of their journey, to touch him (it had been so long and Will was so close) if only to hold him. He had nothing to lose by being open about his desires. All Will could do was accuse him of behaving like a survivor, having escaped the hell of being parted from Will Graham. Once Will was back in his orbit, Hannibal made it clear that it would kill him to be out of it again. 

 

He had been shameless in forecasting his need for Will. He still is. He owes his fast recovery to Will’s presence alone. It typically takes almost a year to recover from a stomach wound. Hannibal willed himself to health in less than 6 months. Every morning he had woken up, obsessed with the moment he could tell Will that nothing else could come between them. 

 

“I won’t be long,” Will interrupts his reverie, now changed from his suit and grabbing a handful of plastic bags for the dogs. 

 

Another quick kiss and then a flurry of movement. The door slams behind them. They will circle the hollow, soaking in the brisk air and the incredible scenery. Hannibal will be home waiting. 

 

Hannibal busies himself trimming the stems from the lavender and arranges a cloud of purple in small vases along the dining table runner. He feels rested, but uneasy. His arousal from having Will close by distracts him, but the white noise that has been festering since his arrival pops to the surface. 

 

Hannibal stands stock-still in the kitchen, playing back their conversation in his mind. Will never told him his new client’s name. Will never commented on the lack of dinner on the table or wine sitting out. 

 

Fraying along the edges, Hannibal takes a wobbly step towards the skull that lines the floor of their shared mind-palace. The Cappella Palatina is suffused with warm candlelight and the boys choir finishes the last notes of their harmony. The congregation is out of their seats and exchanging the expressions of peace and love. 

 

He sees Will, from a few minutes ago, slipping out the doors of their stone house. Hannibal turns and walks down the aisle to go back further in the day. To Pine Mountain Therapy. Heads turn as they watch his stalking, alarmed. Hannibal navigates through the maze of the mind palace, his aim being a door, marked Private. 

 

Typically, it’s a ten minute drive to Will’s office in Groveland, off the main road from Hell’s Hollow. It sits on the main strip, straight out of a Western movie, set during the Gold Rush. The saloon has become a tourist spot, and there’s a great Mexican restaurant and various organic coffee shops filling the storefronts, but it still feels like an area lost in another time. 

 

The basket of lavender sits on the corner of a desk in the waiting room. Hannibal glides past the lobby and into the private offices where Will sees his patients. Mayra marches in, who reminds him of a female version of Franklyn Froideveaux. Next come the retirees who finally want to process the trauma and transgressions of their younger days. 

 

These cases are familiar to him too. Many times, Will asks Hannibal to consult with him on the progress of a patient and welcome Hannibal in to listen and advise. Afterwards, he would trust Will’s assessment, secure that Will makes a fine therapist, who had always given sound advice. 

 

He had encouraged this line of work for Will as they recovered, passing along counseling books and eventually paying for several online courses. While Hannibal was charmed by the nearby towns that had a full calendar of wine tastings and outdoor festivals, Will wanted to take his newfound gifts and use them to manipulate others to their own becomings.

 

It took time for Will to grow comfortable with the idea. The scars that curved down his cheek and curled under his hairline made his face memorable. His multiple-wounded shoulder made his arm hang noticeably slack at his side. 

 

But he found his scars had the opposite effect. Because he was different, he had become invisible to most. To the rude, he was a curiosity, like a freak in a window display. They would inevitable approach and ask him what had happened to him, and Will would look them square in the eye and casually answer, “I was in a bad car accident.” Very rarely would he have to elaborate. 

 

If it weren’t for Freddie Lounds still paying for tips to “Find the Murder Husbands Dead or Alive” and their pictures being up on the FBI Most Wanted list, Will would have been completely at ease in public. But he remains vigilant. And regularly dyes his hair streaked with blond. Hannibal has let his hair go completely silver. 

 

A prime location opened up on the main strip in Groveland and then Will had his own office. A large sign for “Pine Mountain Therapy” was placed in front, practically scaring all but the desperate to come in for help. 

 

Who had come in today? And why had the lavender covered the smell of this new client?

 

The retirees return to the golf course for the late afternoon hour. The light from Will’s office window is more golden. The shadows flit across the lobby where the doorbell buzzes. 

 

The new client walks in. He is clearly not a local. His suit is not as tailored as Will’s, but it’s fitted to a firm and well-maintained frame. 

 

Hannibal fixes his eyes on Will’s face as he looks up from the desk to the lobby. His features, normally set on neutral, speak to an instant attraction. His eyes are a little wider, his eyebrows a little higher, his mouth forming into a small “O”. 

 

Hannibal is so closely following the micro-expressions registering on Will’s face that he misses the man’s profile. Will gives him a full smile and steps aside to allow the man to stride into his office. 

 

Hannibal ’s given Will the script for the icebreaker. Which Will uses verbatim. He wants to gauge Will’s interest.

 

“…resident at the Yosemite Institute,” the man finishes his introduction.

 

Long pause as Will inhales and crosses his legs. The doctor and patient assess each other. Will tilts his head slightly and blinks.

 

“And why did you come in for therapy today, Emil?”

 

Emil takes a shuddering breath. He appears to be at a loss for words. Will waits him out. 

 

As the stare each other down, Hannibal finally takes in this threat. Tall legs. Lean. Bookish but handsome behind clear, fashionable glasses. 

 

“Are you married, Dr. Lupi?” Emil asks Will. 

 

“I am.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“I’ve been married twice. The first time was for two and a half years.”

 

Hannibal registers that his heart rate has increased. It pains him, the affect the mere mention of Molly Graham has on him. The rage that courses through him as he is forced to contemplate that Will was with her during his incarceration. 

 

“Did it end in divorce?”

 

“It did,” Will responds without hesitation. “I did one of the most self-destructive things you could do in a relationship.”

 

“You cheated on her?” another sharp intake of breath from Emil.

 

“Not physically. I was emotionally unavailable. I kept a side of my life hidden from her and it eventually tore our marriage apart.” 

 

“How did she handle it?”

 

“She was devastated. Angry. And yet she felt she was partially to blame. I wouldn’t let her do that and we took a break so that I could find myself. I remarried a few years ago,” Will swallows. “Am I still trustworthy to you, Emil?”

 

“You were honest,” Emil replies, curtly. “Who am I to judge?”

 

“It is in our nature to judge. You’re judging me now, just as I’m judging you. You are taking in my scarred face. My bum arm. What do you see?”

 

Emil considers him. Folds his hands in his lap. 

 

“Elegance. Hidden treasures. A story of the ages.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes flash at Emil’s assessment. Will looks impressed too. 

 

“Maybe I’ll tell you that story sometime,” Will gives a reassuring smile. 

 

“What do you see with me?” Emil asks.

 

“Strength. Broken promises. A new link forming in the chain.”

 

Emil, too, is impressed. But wary: “Why did you withhold from your wife?”

 

“I did it because I could,” Will says simply. “Because it’s easy to hurt the ones we love. Has someone hurt you, Emil?”

 

“Yes, Dr. Lupi.”

 

“Call me Daniel.”

 

Hannibal watches how easy the silence sits between the two. Will waits for his patient to reveal himself. 

 

“Daniel, I came in today because my wife… my wife…” He is overcome as tears course down his cheeks. Will passes him the box of tissues. 

 

“You are safe here, Emil, to become the judge, the jury or the executioner,” Will nods. “Whatever you choose to do, you have already been forgiven. You are already free. Just as the mountain lions that wander around this vista are.”

 

“So, what,” Emil considers, “we don’t answer to any god or any law?”

 

“We are lions and we only answer to our nature.”

 

Emil rocks in agreement from this. His distress makes him beautiful… Hannibal can’t decide if he’s picking up on Will’s cues or his own feelings.

 

Before he can delve into that, Hannibal can hear the dogs turning onto the driveway. He glances into the chapel quickly to the path that returns him to Hell’s Hollow. Will soon to follow. He has a little under two minutes.

 

Emil is plunging right in when Hannibal returns his focus. “My wife is sleeping with my best friend,” Emile confesses. 

 

“How do you know this?”

 

“I just know.”

 

“How are you handling it?”

 

Emil looks at Will sharply for throwing his previous question back in his face. “What do you mean by that?”

 

“Are you planning to leave? To stay? To win back her heart?”

 

Emil grits his teeth. Shakes his head in a furious daze. He looks up at the ceiling with its recessed lighting and the last afternoon sunrays disappearing from the window. Tears swim in Emil’s eyes.

 

“The residents are housed in these two-story cabins by the waterfall. And I walk underneath the window sometimes, where she is with him, and I see nothing but red. A bright, hot flash of red.”

 

Will leans forward, “There’s a tendency among hunters, Emil. To raise what they kill. To eat what they love – “

 

Hannibal forces himself to walk back the way he came. He can hear the dogs running into the mudroom. Will rifling through the bin for treats.

 

Hannibal emerges from their memory palace and tries to get his bearings. He has not made dinner. Lavender is scattered all over the cutting board. 

 

Will and the dogs burst into the kitchen. Hannibal scrambles to place a leftover tray of antipasto of thin breadsticks, a wedge of provolone, green onions and salami to nosh on while he whips up… something. 

 

Hannibal stands in front of the open refrigerator, staring inside. It is practically overflowing with food. It is harvest time at the area farms and he is canning his jams and spreads and pickled vegetables for the upcoming winter. 

 

Will slips his arms around his waist and whispers hotly in his ear. “What are you divining from the fridge?” Hannibal leans back into him. 

 

“That we should go out to eat.”

 

Will actually is startled hearing this. “I thought I would never hear those words, coming from you. Are you not feeling well?”

 

“I don’t feel like cooking,” Hannibal smiles.

 

Will clutches his heart, feigning an attack. Hannibal playfully smacks his hand. Even the dogs glance askance at him. 

 

“Don’t sound so happy about it,” Hannibal grumbles as they head out.

 

Hannibal climbs into the station wagon and buckles in for the drive. Will looks over at him quizzically. 

 

“Your call,” Will tells him. “Where do you want to go?”

 

And Hannibal, as casually as he can, navigates them toward Yosemite. The restaurant is not quite in the park, but it’s close enough. He’ll take the gamble whether or not they’ll see Will’s new client there. 

 

He’s curious to see if he’ll get a chance to meet Emil in person. And what kind of person he indeed will be.


	2. Rush Creek Resort

The fog clings to the walls of the valley as the sun settles on the horizon. Will shrugs on a leather jacket after he steps out of the car and warns Hannibal that it will get cold later. But Hannibal is still quite warm from his visit to their mind palace and the possibility of meeting Emil. 

 

The Rush Creek Lodge recently opened to cater to the wealthy tourists in the area. The farm to table restaurant has been Zagat rated and tables are hard to come by. But Mayra’s family invested in it and Mayra told Will to drop her name at any time. 

 

The host rakes his gaze over Will, entranced by his radiance and sexuality, and apparently decides to seat him at one of the best tables. Hannibal takes in the heads that turn as Will winds his way past the maze of tables to the center table against the windows in full view of gardens and cliff vista surrounding the resort.

 

Enough eyes linger on Will, but one set in particular widen at the sight of him. Emil rushes to his feet and chases down their party until they slow. 

 

Will looks over his shoulder, surprised to see Emil and puts his Dr. Daniel Lupi mask firmly in place. Hannibal drifts behind him, waiting, curious to see what happens. The host waits too, at this intrusion. 

 

“Daniel,” Emil smiles. “Surprised to see you here.” 

 

He indicates the large table he escaped from. 

 

“Twice in one day,” Will murmurs. “What will they say about us?”

 

Emil glances down at his feet, charmed, and then lets his eyes drift over to the party of co-workers who have gone silent, staring at the traffic jam Emil has created in the restaurant. 

 

“I’d like to introduce you to my wife and best friend,” Emil boldly states, “if you don’t mind.” Will pretends not to mind. And now Emil is in a pickle. “How will I introduce you?”

 

“As a friend,” Will says simply. 

 

“A friend,” Emil beams and looks around Hannibal. “Where is your wife?”

 

Hannibal puffs out his chest, hoping to appear as affronted as he feels. Will forces his damaged arm to extend and beckons Hannibal closer to him. Hannibal extends his hand. 

 

“Hans Sturm,” Hannibal introduces himself. 

 

“My husband,” Will explains to Emil. 

 

“Lupi is Italian for ‘wolf’, if I’m correct,” Emil nods to Will. “And Sturm… German for `storm’. What a study in contrasts. Steady and chaotic.” 

 

“That sums us up nicely,” Hannibal smiles. “How astute.”

 

“Emil Gilberto, not as an exciting as a name, I must say,” Emil extends his hand. “Perhaps we should consider a spouse swap after you meet my wife.”

 

The amusement on Hannibal’s face does not quite reach his eyes. Emil’s hand, extending, stutters to a stop. Will finds his arm weaving through Hannibal’s. 

 

“I don’t think I’m going anywhere, but we’re happy to meet your wife,” Will interjects to warm the chill in the air. 

 

Emil grips Hannibal’s hand with a tilt of his head, as if to say this is interesting. Will looks over and smiles. Hannibal returns it and follows Emil to the large party in the corner of the restaurant. Appreciative looks flit over Will and Hannibal. No one seems to recognize them.

 

Hannibal finally gets to study Emil. And his wife. 

 

Emil introduces her as Fleur, also French, with the same blonde waves as Will. No wonder Emil is so comfortable with his psychiatrist. His best friend, Yariv, is understandable confused by Emil’s new friends, who joke easily with the colleagues. 

 

“Would you like to join us?” Emil asks, but the host has not relented in giving up their table. Will indicates another time and embraces Emil goodbye. 

 

Will looks between Fleur and Yariv and knows. Emil watches Will watch them, when they think no one is looking. Will finds his gaze drifting from them and resting on Emil. The empathy in Will’s eyes makes Emil’s heart lurch. He sinks back in his chair when Will gives a heavy nod to him. 

 

This silent communication does not go unnoticed by Hannibal, who grazes Will’s backside. He returns to the host and soon after, Will joins them. Will seems to consider the menu, but is really considering how this “chance” encounter happened. Finally he looks up at Hannibal.

 

“This could be a trap,” Will sets down his menu, his sharp slate eyes dancing around the restaurant.

 

“I know,” Hannibal replies. “But what if it’s not?”

 

Will catches his look. “He’s my patient,” he insists. “Nothing more.”

 

“He’s attracted to you. He’s stated as much.“

 

“It was a joke.”

 

Hannibal would have a smirk on his face, if he weren’t so insulted by Will’s dismissal. A heavy silence sits between them. Will has noticed that as he’s aged, as his scars had become more prominent, people find his dangerous attractive. He’s been able to handle it before, but he can’t quite figure why Emil seems different.

 

“What is it that you sense about him?” Will presses.

 

“You are playing with him, without me,” Hannibal states the obvious.

 

“When have I had time to put him in play?”

 

A bottle of Italian wine has been sent over from Emil’s table and the waiter sits it in front of them. The waiter presents the bottle to Will. A wolf stands prominent on the label. There’s no mistaking the message. 

 

Will ignores Hannibal’s look and instead nods at the waiter to pour for them. Will is offered a tasting. He inhales the lush, sensual scent and wets his lips with a taste. He sets the glass down and glances over his shoulder to meet Emil’s gaze. Emil raises his glass and Will and Hannibal do the same, sharing a nod of understanding and appreciation. 

 

Hannibal waits for Will to meet his look across the table. It is unflinching, victorious, in this round. Will glances towards the dense forest, losing himself for a moment in the surrounding hunting grounds filled with hitchhikers and hippies sleeping in their camper vans. He’d rather be out there than with Hannibal right now. 

 

And then screams fill the restaurant. A sharp flash drops in front of the spectacular views. A loud thud.

 

Will sets aside the menu covering his lap and rises to his feet. He reaches Hannibal’s side, protective. He places a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder for him to remain seated. 

 

The restaurant patrons have rushed to the windows to stare at the body twisted unnaturally on the ground below. Will rubbernecks with the rest of them. And his suspicions are confirmed. It is indeed Fleur. And Yariv is screaming for help, pushing his way towards the windows. 

 

“She was beside me and then she wasn’t,” Yariv is babbling. And then he sees her body, sprawled out in a pool of blood. “Fleur!” 

 

He bangs on the window and catches Will staring at him. It jolts him. The tears streaming down his eyes, his shaking hands. He realizes the scene he’s causing, how he sounds. The eyes that are now on him and then Emil. 

 

“My wife is missing,” Emil says to the host, who hangs back at the table. 

 

Emil’s co-workers surround him, in an effort for him to avoid the overlook. Yariv remains, unable to take his eyes away. Hannibal holds his gaze on Emil, impressed. 

 

Will reaches for Hannibal and signals that it’s time to leave. They can hear the sirens approach. The call for a doctor in the house. A woman steps forward and is guided to the elevators. More people swarm forward, to see. 

 

Only Emil watches as Will and Hannibal make their way for the exit, avoiding the police moments before they descend upon the restaurant, locking everyone in for questioning.


	3. Voicebox

Will crosses his legs and then places his hands in his lap. He is the picture of calm and collected. But he cannot hide his irritation with Mayra.

 

“How was the Lodge last night?” she asks innocently.

 

Will forces a false smile to crack through his eyes. 

 

“A woman jumped from the roof while we there,” Will answers. 

 

“Oh my,” Mayra clutches her ample bosom. “Before or after you ordered?”

 

“Before.”

 

“Most unfortunate that you didn’t even get to eat.”

 

“It was,” Will looks away. He needs to steer the conversation back to its true purpose. “It made me think of toxic relationships. Like the one with your mother. How you must extract yourself from that orbit, if you are to heal.”

 

Mayra grows pensive. “You’re thinking of this woman and me?”

 

“I made the association. I don’t want you to get to that point. That you would do something drastic. That you would hurt yourself. Suicide is not the answer, Mayra.”

 

“Survivors have to be willing to save themselves first, isn’t that what you say?” she reminds him. Will doesn’t answer. She shakes her head, not quite denying she’s suicidal, and the tears come. 

 

Will watches her, waiting to see how long it will take for her to reach her own decision. She is practically begging for a tissue before Will notices. He extends the box to her and watches her wipe her cheeks, her nose. The tissue lies rumpled in her hands. 

 

“Dr. Lupi,” she sniffles, “how will I ever break free of that voicebox of negativity in my head? What use is it leaving or staying when it will follow me wherever I go?”

 

“It matters. How you choose to silence it matters whether it will carry with you or not. You have to empower that choice.”

 

Mayra sits with that, wheels churning. She peers at Will, trying to suss out meaning in his inscrutable and marked face. She is surprised when he unfurls his full frame from the chair and moves towards the door. Their time is up. 

 

In a daze, Mayra steps out into Will’s sitting room. A local detective sits in the chair, jumping to his feet as they emerge. 

 

The detective addresses Mayra. “Dr. Lupi, I’m Detective Stan Holden, from the Madera Police Department.”

 

Will looks between them. “Actually I’m Dr. Lupi. Unless this about her.”

 

Mayra is too wide-eyed and twitchy, volleying her gaze between the two authority figures to be of any use to anyone. Detective Holden dismisses her and focuses on Will.

 

“This was about last night. We were interviewing everyone at the Rush Creek Lodge, but you left before we could talk to you.”

 

“I didn’t react well to a woman plunging to her death outside where I was about to eat,” Will covers smoothly.

 

“Understandable. May I come in?”

 

Will hesitates. He considers sounding the alarm that would buzz Hannibal’s phone. To put their exit plan in motion. But he wants to make sure…

 

He steps aside and allows the detective to enter. Stan takes in the open floor plan. The clear view of the forest behind the office. With the wooden wainscoting and the vinelike, lush plants choking the beams, the inside merges seamlessly with the outside. Like a step into the jungle, into the heart of darkness of the mind. It can have a disturbing effect on some. Stan looks disturbed. 

 

“This is different,” Stan observes. Will mirrors his stance, nodding, to put him at ease. “I’m sorry about mistaking you for your client earlier. They said you were at the lodge with your husband.”

 

“That’s right.”

 

Will remains stock still behind his desk, carved from one of the fallen sequoias. His hand runs along the grain, to the panic button underneath, hovering. 

 

“Did you or your husband happen to see anything?”

 

“A blur. As she fell. It was quite gruesome, the sound of impact,” Will shivers in the warmth of his office. “Was it a suicide?”

 

“We haven’t found a note yet, but we wanted to cover all bases,” Stan admits. 

 

“I’m sorry. We would’ve stayed if we had seen anything suspicious.” 

 

Stan nods, understanding. “Did you know the victim?”

 

“I was introduced to her before we sat down for dinner for the first time. I may have exchanged a handful of words with her.”

 

“She seem distraught to you?”

 

“I had no baseline to analyze that. It was a brief introduction. She was sitting with a large group too.”

 

“Why were you introduced to her?”

 

“Her husband, Emil. We’d met in passing –“

 

“A patient of yours?” Stan held up his pen to his pad, expectantly.

 

“Not officially, no. We struck up a conversation as he was passing through town.”

 

Stan raises an eyebrow at that. Will’s finger itches near the panic button. 

 

“He sees a man his age, thriving in this small town. He was curious. I got the sense that business was good with him. He was in good spirits. He was looking at real estate and drifted through to get a feel of the place.”

 

Stan lets his eyes fall over Will’s lithe frame and draws his own conclusions. “And he liked what he saw?”

 

Will meets his gaze, with a tilt of his head.

 

“Any mention of marriage problems?” Stan presses on. 

 

“Not at all. When we ran into each other at Rush Creek, it was as friends.”

 

That seems to confirm it for Stan as it matches what the group told him. He scribbles a few notes in that pad and closes it. 

 

Stan smiles. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Lupi.”

 

Will lifts his hand from the desk and goes to shake the detective’s hand. He admires Stan’s grip. And then his own smile falters.

 

“Come to think of it – something strange did come up. A friend of theirs, at the table. I don’t recall his name,” Will pauses, as if trying to remember. “He was really vocal after her fall. Crying even. It made me wonder… you never know what’s going on in someone’s marriage.”

 

Stan soaks that in and writes the nugget down. “You’ve been a great help, Dr. Lupi. Thank you.”

 

Will walks him to the exit and waves his goodbye. He closes the door and strides to the phone. He doesn’t think they’ll follow up with Hannibal, but he wants to warn him if that’s the case. Before he does anything drastic.

 

*

 

He is rattled enough that he returns home for lunch. Hannibal stands outside with their mutts, waiting for him. 

 

They stride towards each other, their eyes in lock-step. Will cups Hannibal’s face, as if searching it for harm. 

 

“Would you have left?” Will ventures.

 

“Not without you.”

 

Will releases his hand, frustrated, and stares at their house. “Then we have no exit plan and that is not good, Hannibal. We can’t be our own trap. We can’t say the world is on fire and then burn with it.”

 

He moves to stride past Hannibal, but crashes against his body. “The world is ice without you in it. Will,” Hannibal sighs. “You are drawing them to us.”

 

“It was a coincidence.”

 

“That he met you for what – twenty minutes – and then found the resolve to kill his wife? Don’t deny your power to me.”

 

Will stops in his tracks and gazes up at Hannibal. Hannibal circles him, considering the man before him. 

 

“You changed him,” Hannibal notes, with awe. “With a nod. I saw it. At the restaurant. You didn’t even have to speak. A look and the seal was unleashed. He lured her to the roof and pushed her off. And sent you a bottle of wine as tribute.”

 

Will struggles to look back on last night for the truth, playing the timeline through his mind, desperate to see the truth if he’s to blame for this. He cannot get his thoughts together with Hannibal leaning closer to him, pressing his hard-on against Will’s thigh. Will jumps back as if burned. 

 

“A look,” Hannibal marvels, pressing his nose against Will’s earlobe and taking the delicate flesh between his teeth. “Do you know how remarkable you are?”

 

Hannibal moans against his ear. Lost in his devotion and admiration for this man. Will can feel the worship radiating from him and pushes back some humility for both of their sakes. 

“I had nothing to do with it,” Will grits out between his teeth. 

 

He is being manhandled by Hannibal in his passion. Swept along a tide of burning desire, he cannot pull himself away from Hannibal’s kisses. His buttocks are kneaded by Hannibal’s hands and he can feel a wet stain breaching Hannibal’s pants. 

 

And then he is swept up in the tide of Hannibal’s passion. Resistance is ridiculous at this point. 

 

Hannibal is roaring, lion unleashed. The house is practically shaking from it. Outside, the dogs still from the sounds of it. 

 

Will attempts to quiet him. Even as far out as they are, someone could hear them. And as ridiculous as that sounds, he senses that someone is approaching. He can hear tires crunching the gravel of their driveway as the car pulls up. Hannibal is still groaning as he comes down from his peak of ecstasy. It is lewd and insane for him to get off like this, after all these years. 

 

Will wipes Hannibal’s sweaty bangs back from his forehead. Forces him to look into his eyes. He is still breathing heavy, still not settled in Will’s arms. 

 

“Someone’s here,” Will tells him. Hannibal looks at him, unseeing. He is overloaded with sensation. Will strokes his face. “Hannibal,” he says again, hoping some of it gets through. “I’m going downstairs to see who’s here.”

 

Hannibal blearily nods, a wide smile plastered on his face. “Stay…”

 

Will bends down and loses himself in another kiss. But this time, there’s no denying the incessant knocking at the door. They look at each other, sobering. 

 

Will approaches the front door, buttoning his shirt. He whips open the door, hoping the dogs are not swarming the visitor. 

 

“Dr. Lupi?” 

 

Will looks up and meets Emil’s gaze. 

 

“Emil?”

 

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

 

Will licks his lips and looks over his shoulder. Hannibal hasn’t drifted downstairs. He takes in Emil, who is assessing his bedhead, his flushed face, the smell clinging to his fingertips. He knows he looks like he just had great sex and only got out of bed to answer the door. And Emil wouldn’t be wrong.

 

“Come in, Emil,” Will smiles broadly, leading Emil into the kitchen. “Have you eaten anything?”

 

Emil looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten since yesterday. And yet he is buzzing with energy. Renewed, even, in Will’s presence. Will leads him into the dining room and gently guides him into a seat. Emil blinkingly takes in the lush lavender centerpiece and the herb garden blooming from the wall. The art framed along the walls depict different images of Lucifer. 

 

“Keeping to the Hell’s Hollow theme,” Emil observes, speaking louder for Will’s behalf. 

 

Will re-enters the dining room with a plate of cheeses and fresh figs. He pauses at the painting depicting “The Fall of the Rebellious Angels”. “Yes,” Will agrees. “A fitting tribute to where Hans and I live and breathe.”

 

Will takes a seat at the head of the table and they tear off pieces of baguette and nosh in silence, admiring the painting. 

 

“They didn’t fall alone,” Emil contemplates. 

 

“No,” Will turns to him and looks at him fully. “And you won’t either. Let me be your safety net.”

 

“You don’t think I should run?”

 

“A running man looks guilty. What do you have to feel guilty of?”

 

Emil sits with that for a moment. A heavy exhale escapes him. “Is it really that simple?”

 

“It is,” Will says simply.

 

Emil starts at the sound of a shower running upstairs. Hannibal is finally rousing himself again. He had told Will that he didn’t think he would be able to walk after their mid-afternoon delight. Will smiles at the memory. 

 

“You protected me, with the detective,” Emil whispers.

 

“It was the least I could do, Emil,” Will brushes some crumbs onto his plate, nonplussed. 

 

“They are going after Yariv,” confesses Emil. “Because of what you said.” 

 

“Good.”

 

“Yes,” Emil brushes aside his tension. “Thank you, Dr. Lupi. For everything. I feel… centered. Like I’ve returned to the core of who I am.”

 

“You’re thriving. As all survivors must learn they must do.”

 

Emil meets his eyes, soaking in his heartfelt words. Will reaches out and places his hand heavily on Emil’s shoulder. It is comforting and conspiratorial. They share a tight smile with each other. Will returns his hand to his side as Hannibal descends the staircase. Limping. 

 

He exchanges a look with Will as he catches sight of Emil. He gives a soundless nod to them both and then reaches for a piece of paper and pen. He writes that he’s lost his voice. Will stifles a laugh threatening to escape from deep within. Hannibal lost his voice screaming his name so loudly during their lovemaking. 

 

Hannibal points to the kitchen and steps away to retrieve some wine in the pantry. Emil watches Will watch Hannibal move around the kitchen.

 

“I don’t have what you and Hans have, so I suspect this loss will go easier on me,” Emil says, raising his voice, mainly for Hannibal’s benefit. Hannibal returns, holding up a bottle of red wine. He smiles as he pours for them.

 

“Complete your residency. Use work to process your grief. You should become my patient so we can meet regularly for counseling. See how you are handling things,” Will suggests.

 

Hannibal nods in agreement, encouraging Emil to latch onto the idea. Emil takes a large sip of the wine, soaking in Will reaching out and touching Hannibal’s throat. Hannibal gives a silent laugh. Hungry for what they have, Emil agrees, “I’ll make an appoint –“

 

The dogs suddenly begin howling and scrambling for the front door. Hannibal’s eyes follow Will as he moves to the foyer. Hannibal and Emil crane their necks to hear who’s at the door. 

 

Mayra walks inside, amped up. She is so laser-focused on Will, she can’t see the men in the dining room. 

 

“You weren’t at your office, anywhere in town really, and I had to talk to you,” Mayra’s words tumble out in a rush. 

 

“Mayra, what is it?”


	4. “A Pattern Emerges”

Will draws her into the dining room, his presence calming although the interior design not so much, and she finds herself seated beside Emil. She considers if this hadn’t been a surprise visit, the possibilities that her therapist could have set her up with a blind date. And how Emil would fit into the image in her head of the man of her dreams. 

 

Hannibal rises and returns with another glass. He gives her a heavy pour and Mayra doesn’t protest. 

 

“I forget that Europeans drink wine for lunch,” she croaks out between large gulps. She blinks owl-like at Emil. “Are you European too?”

 

“French, yes,” Emil answers, amused. “And I drink wine with lunch.”

 

“See?” Will turns to Hannibal. “I detect a pattern here. Although Hans would not consider this a lunch, by any standards, European or otherwise.”

 

Mayra looks at Hans, confused. Emil explains Hannibal’s lack of voice on his behalf. 

 

“Summer colds are the worst,” he finishes, flashing her his most charming smile. 

 

Mayra can’t believe her luck, or lack thereof. She silently begins to cry. Emil, alarmed, looks to Will. The men begin to fuss around her and she bats away the help, trying to get a handle on herself. 

 

“I’m so sorry. This is so lovely and here I am, ruining it,” Mayra laments. 

 

“No,” Will soothes. “You’re my patient, Mayra. If there’s an emergency…”

 

“There is,” Mayra manages. She sets aside her wine glass. “My mother…”

 

Emil looks between Will and Mayra, sensing how the air has changed. Will has jumped to his feet and is closing the distance to Mayra. 

 

“We should go to my office, Mayra,” he explains, pulling out her chair, “and discuss this, there.”

 

Mayra staggers to her feet. “What does it matter? Soon, everyone will know.”

 

“Know what?” Emil finds himself saying. 

 

Mayra holds his gaze. “Are you a patient of Dr. Lupi’s too?”

 

“Yes,” Emil admits, without hesitation.

 

Will has grabbed hold of her elbow now, indicating the door. Hannibal, in auto-pilot, has reached for the cheese knife. He has moved around the table, near Emil’s side, in a blur. 

 

“I feel… centered,” she echoes. “Like I’ve found my core.” She cradles her stomach and clenches her fist into it. “I’m empowered now. “ She steps easily back from Will and the table. Her face is contorted as she pounds her fist onto her chest. “I got her, Dr. Lupi. It’s the last insult she ever spoke to me.”

 

“Got her?” Emil struggles to process what she’s saying. 

 

Will maneuvers her out of the room before she can answer. Hannibal can see the meaning dawning in Emil’s eyes. And then Emil rests his eyes on Hannibal. The clench of his fist around the knife. 

 

“Who are you?” Emil asks him. “Who is Dr. Lupi?” 

 

Emil looks around the room. At all the pictures of the fallen angels. The scent of earth and herbs. The wild that surrounds them. 

 

The scales fall from Emil’s eyes. A startled gasp emits from his mouth. Hannibal assesses him silently. And it feels even more dangerous in the room. 

 

“Loo-look,” Emil stammers. “I’ll tell them that Dr. Lupi isn’t to blame –“

 

Hannibal tilts his head. Emil practically pisses himself. He raises his hands to protect his throat, scooting back in his chair. Hannibal hovers over him, knife high.

 

“Hannibal,” Emil makes a strangled sound. It has taken all his willpower to emit this name. 

 

The knife freezes in mid-strike. Emil, crouched in the chair, moves his gaze from the knife to Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal waits him out, curious.

 

“If you leave with me now, Will can be spared. You can die, knowing you saved him.”

 

Hannibal senses something behind him. He turns his head slightly. Emil’s “wife” with his “best friend” stand behind Hannibal, guns raised. Before Will, suicide had never been an option. But now. It’s not even a question. Separation is worse than death. He staggers back, unhinged by the thought that they have his husband.

 

It takes the three of them to restrain Hannibal with zipties and a mouth guard to his jawline. Before he can flail out, a straightjacket is fitted around him and his legs are wrapped together. An experienced and efficient bounty hunting crew. Hannibal would be impressed, if it weren’t for the fact that he was now at their mercy.

 

As he looks down at the bindings, it all seems familiar to him. And with every defense being taken from him, including his own voice, he doesn’t trust that he knows if they are taking him somewhere or just will kill him on the spot. But they are not moving. And as the moments pass, he grows more alarmed that Will hasn’t appeared. 

 

They knew this day could come. More importantly, he knew that this lure that they used had been elaborately designed just for them. They had lived out in the open at the risk that they could be observed. And apparently, they had been for some time. Their capturer had been patient. Taken an exorbitant amount of time to find the right team. Spent a small fortune paying for this Emil to agree to be hypnotized and the bait to lure them into their elaborate trap. 

 

This wasn’t Jack Crawford’s doing. This was something beyond the scope of the FBI and Jack’s own sense of righteousness. And besides, Jack would have killed them by now. 

 

Hannibal considers swallowing his tongue. If they’re caught, this has always been their failsafe. He can barely breathe now, not knowing where Will is. He had waited for him to resurface once before and it had almost killed him. 

 

But there is a slight chance Will is still alive and if there’s a possibility he can get one last glimpse…

 

A door in the house creaks open. Even the dogs scurry back at the sight of the man who reveals himself. 

 

But Hannibal can only see Will in someone’s clutches, the man’s face obscured. The sleeve of his arm wrapped around Will’s throat. A stitchwork was clear on the skin, as if imprinted like a tattoo. Blood splatter marks Will’s throat. His mouth. Hannibal arches with relief that Will is alive and yet ready to lunge for the man that would dare touch him. 

 

“What other games would you have played with me, Will? What were going to do to your other patient?” asks Emil.

 

Will ignores him and turns his fury inward. “What are you going to do to us?”

 

Fleur and Yariv step forward, and begin unpacking cases containing surgical knives and operating scrubs. She pricks Hannibal in the neck with a needle and waits for its effects to work its way through his system. 

 

“We are going to skin him alive, while you watch,” she states efficiently. 

 

Will glances behind him and takes in his captor. “I smell fire. And flesh. And Frederick Chilton.”

 

Hannibal takes in the familiar shape, but unfamiliar face. Frederick gives his imitation of a grin. 

 

“Hello, Hannibal,” greets Frederick. “Hello, Will.”


	5. The Poetry of Motion

There’s almost affection there. The old gang back together again. And for Frederick, there’s no denying it’s good to finally have Will in his arms right where he’s always wanted him. 

 

“It feels good to see you again, Will,” another reconstructive grin is pressed against Will’s neck. “I can see why Hannibal kept you to himself all these years.”

 

Hannibal exchanges a look with Will. It is their goodbye. One last look. Hannibal drinks him in, almost choking on the longing that he feels for him. And Will is only a few feet away. 

 

Yariv steps into Frederick’s place as Emil helps Frederick dress in his scrubs. Up close, Yariv is tall and built like a fire hydrant. Will couldn’t take him down without Hannibal’s help.

 

The drug Hannibal was shot with make him feel heavy-limbed. Fleur checks how far gone his eyes are and nods at Emil. They begin to strip him of his security restraints until he is fully nude. Apparently, Frederick is going for total humiliation. 

 

Frederick draws closer to Hannibal, inspecting his skin. “Flesh still has some bounce to it, Hannibal. You’ve been eating well. Living well. Getting plenty of vitamin D. My own body will like that,” drawls Frederick, pleased as punch. 

 

Frederick reaches for a scalpel. “I wasn’t the best surgeon, but I’ll do my best to ruin the hold on your vanity. Enough so your husband will only have eyes for me.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes roll back in his head. And he begins to choke on his tongue. Frederick lunges for him and beckons Emil and Fleur over to help.

 

“Don’t do this, Hannibal,” Frederick warns. “Not when I finally have you. No, no, no.”

 

Emil and Fleur lower Hannibal to the floor and Frederick pries Hannibal’s jaw open, reaching inside his mouth. Yariv is disciplined enough to keep his grip and focus on Will. He leaves the medical emergencies to the professionals.

 

The doorbell rings. 

 

The room vibrates from the choking noises gripping Hannibal and Frederick and his crew helpless to do anything. The door was left unlocked. They can hear this unwelcomed intrusion step in. 

 

“Dr. Lupi,” Detective Holden calls. “Anyone home?”

 

Will starts to give away his location and Yariv backslaps him, sending him reeling. As he falls against the armoire, the crash alarms the detective, who rushes into the room. 

 

Detective Holden takes in Dr. Lupi’s staggering to his feet, his prime suspects and their supposedly dead victim kneeling by a convulsing naked man and a strange patchwork of a man holding a scalpel, and draws his weapon. Yariv raises his hands and places his gun on the ground. 

 

“We’re also law enforcement,” Yariv explains. “Clearance with Interpol, if I can show you my identification.”

 

Holden considers this, but the scene is too suspicious. 

 

“They’re lying,” Will shouts over Yariv. “They’re trying to kill my husband.”

 

“I’m a doctor,” Frederick explains, indicating Hannibal. “I need to give him medical attention – “

 

The confusion is building on the way Holden is shakily extending his gun. Will takes advantage and adds to it.

 

“He’s not a doctor,” Will charges. “He’s armed and he’s trying to kill my hus –“

 

Frederick misses the moment Hannibal rises up and takes a chunk out of his throat. The movement is enough to rattle the on-edge detective. Shots ring through the house. Gunsmoke clouds the space of the dining room. 

 

*

 

When the fog clears, Mayra sits calmly at the head of the dining room table surveying the bodies and blood along the floor. The sun is setting, the golden light filtering through the room. 

 

The sunrays licking through the windows turned out to be flames that could be seen from miles away. The forest rangers barrel down the highway, sirens howling, and they are barely able to save the catatonic woman in time. 

 

Mayra suffers third degree burns and spends her remaining days at a rehab facility declaring she is not a victim anymore. She tells the detectives that visit her she’s finally free. The voicebox usually filling her head gone silent. 

 

Many in town will speculate that she had a psychotic break that led to her killing her mother and then the deadly spree at her psychiatrist’s house. Rumors spread that she was secretly in love with Dr. Lupi, constantly bringing him gifts and flowers. 

 

But the men found sprawled in the Lupi-Sturm dining room were not the doctor and his husband. And a fingerprint hit comes up on the database that was unexpected. A Dr. Frederick Chilton. Jack Crawford and the FBI are called in to investigate. 

 

Jack rifles through Detective Holden’s notes. He’d actually put out an APB on Mayra after her mother’s body was discovered and a tip came through that she had walked down the highway to Hell’s Hollow Road. Before he left the police station, his lieutenant had remembered that her psychiatrist lived on that bend. They called and called Dr. Lupi’s house and cellphone, but there had been no answer. 

 

And still, the answers as to why Frederick Chilton ended up dead here, engulfed in flames once more, are fleeting. The female hitchhiker’s body that had been subbed in apparently for “Fleur’s” at the Rush Creek Resort restaurant. Fleur has yet to be identified, but the theory was she was a homeless youth that Frederick trained and supported. 

 

Which throws out the assumption that the other two male bodies found charred in the dining room were Dr. Lupi and his husband.

 

When Jack’s caravan of local detectives, Federal agents, forensic experts and Interpol investigators approach Hell’s Hollow, they smell the burnt offering that craters around the house. Spikes of charred wood stand up at attention. The ground itself is a murky soup and still smoldering. 

 

It resembles the very pit of its namesake. 

 

The heat of the fire was so hot that only the exterior shell of the stone house remains. Intellectually, he knows Will Graham will mourn the loss of their home, but Jack can hear Hannibal’s whispers of “rebirth” and “victory”. 

 

He asks for a moment alone, to imagine their lives then and now. Hannibal content and Will thriving. And now… on a plane over the Pacific, relaxed, and holding hands, drinking champagne, celebrating a new chapter. 

 

Along with the earth around him, Jack smolders. 

 

The fire marshall interrupts, deeming the area too unsafe to investigate. He calls Jack back to the caravan. Glancing over his shoulder, Jack wonders how long the trail will stay fresh. With nowhere else to go, he is taken to the Coroner’s Office, to view the bodies.

 

Jack gazes at his charred remains and concludes he could easily see himself in Frederick’s place, devoting his life to hunting down Will and Hannibal until his dying days. Or he could end this now and reclaim the remainder of his life. 

 

This obsession that they inspired in people had to end before they ruined what little retirement he could enjoy while he still had his health. He could walk out of the morgue, as Will had done all those years ago, and drive to Yosemite. Explore the country. Forget the evil minds that can’t be contained in his museum. 

 

And then the forensic results come back. They have a voice match from the panic button from Lupi’s office that went directly to the security system at the home. Eighty percent chance Dr. Lupi’s voice is Will Graham’s. 

 

“The teacup has shattered,” Lupi’s recording said. 

 

The voice analysis experts and the local detail assigned to the case and the federal agents look to Jack to confirm. If anyone knew Will’s voice, it was Jack. But the modeling indicated a high probability and they wait for Jack to confirm.

 

Jack stares at the door and then at his team. He nods. He may have even stated sharply, “That’s Will.” And everyone swirls around him, bursting into action. Off to do their jobs. 

 

But Jack remains still. His eyes on the door. Expecting to see Will and Hannibal stride through any moment, like they used to, and announce which new residence they were setting up shop, like they are probably doing now. And the irony is in that moment Jack realized he was the teacup. And they had broken him.


End file.
